


Rich At Last

by Desiree_Harding



Series: My Way is Rough and Steep [1]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Grief/Mourning, Martha's backstory, Short One Shot, Trigger warning for suicide, almost a drabble really, not explicitly described
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-25
Updated: 2016-11-25
Packaged: 2018-09-02 05:38:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8652955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Desiree_Harding/pseuds/Desiree_Harding
Summary: Martha comes home to suddenly find herself a widow.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is just something I wrote when I had no PWS inspiration, about the end of Martha Washington's first marriage. Takes [place long before my ongoing fic, Poor Wayfaring Stranger. I'd say enjoy, but this isn't a happy one.

It feels like nothing when it happens.

She just goes out to the store after church, just to go get some groceries for the next few days. It’s ordinary in that way where she doesn’t have to think about it, just going about the routine and letting the routine carry her where it will.

She comes home and parks the car in the little garage. She opens the door from the garage to the kitchen. She doesn’t call out to Daniel to help her; Daniel is caught up in his own pursuits. She places the bags on the floor, takes out the cold things first and puts them away. The produce goes next, then the dry things to the pantry and the paper bags neatly folded and under the bottom shelf.

She goes upstairs to change out of her Sunday clothes, the pretty, soft floral dress fluttering about her knees. It fits now, and a part of her hates that. She climbs the carpeted stairs and she pushes open the bedroom door, wood solid and heavy under her hands.

She sees immediately. And it isn’t like in the movies, where they scream. She just takes a moment and looks, and then takes a deep breath and looks away.

There’s no note in the bedroom, nothing else to find, and so Martha goes downstairs and pulls down the phone. She places the call, calmly explains the situation, and waits in the living room for the police to arrive. The officers knock on the door, ask kindly to come inside. Martha lets them in the door, lets two of them and a paramedic push past her and go up the stairs. She sits on the couch with two more officers, answers their questions calmly and politely, barely flinches when one of the men places his hand on her shoulder and squeezes, asks if there’s anyone he needs to call. She says no, keeps her hands firmly in her lap and doesn’t meet the other officer’s eyes.

The officers come down the stairs, confer in the hallway, and a few more people come in and walk down a few minutes later with the body. They ask her if she’d like to come with them, if there’s anything else she needs to do. She says no, and when they say they’d rather not leave her alone, she says that she’d prefer that they did.

They want to sit with her, but eventually she gets them to leave. One more condolence and she shuts the door behind them, locks it tightly. She locks all the doors in the house, obsessively, and the windows, checking each, going so far as walking up to the attic door, hesitating before she goes inside. She doesn’t go up. She goes downstairs instead and goes into the kitchen.

She bought some more pasta at the store today, and pasta is easy and quick, and she makes a batch, spooning half into her bowl and taking another down before she remembers. She puts the bowl away, dumps the remainder of the noodles and sauce into the trashcan and lets them steam there.

She eats at the table. She goes to look out the window and sees her own reflection; it’s dark outside. She thinks about turning on the radio; decides against it.

When she’s finished, she washes each dish, dries them meticulously, places them back in their cabinets and on their shelves where they belong. She leaves the kitchen with the lights off, and looking, in her mind, like no one lives there at all.

She stands, for a moment, at the base of the stairs, looking at the rooms of her quiet house in contemplation. She decides to turn, to climb the stairs one foot at a time, and her hand never leaves the smooth railing. She goes to the bedroom on silent, unthinking feet, pushes the door open. Takes one look before she has to rush into the bathroom and lean over the toilet as her dinner comes back up.

When she’s done she gets a glass of water, brushes the foul taste out of her mouth. Then she goes into the bedroom and strips every linen from the bed, carrying them to the laundry room and dumping them on the floor. She takes disinfectant from under the cabinet, cleans every surface she can in a rush. She doesn’t once look up the whole time.

And after, she simply goes to the linen closet and pulls down the extra pillows and blankets. She pulls down more than she needs and she takes every single one of them down the hall to the third door. She turns the knob and takes in the soft décor, the crib. And she throws the blankets and pillows on the floor in a heap.

She suddenly realizes that she’s still wearing her pretty Sunday dress, fluttering around her knees. She doesn’t bother to properly change, just pulls it off, strips to her underclothes and lays down on the floor, pillows and blankets around her and under her, disorganized and soft. Takes the little Teddy bear she bought out of the crib and pulls it close to her chest.

She doesn’t sleep. She lays in the silent house all night and when the sun rises the next morning, so does she.

 

**Author's Note:**

> If you like this verse, come talk to me on tumblr (@desiree-harding) or leave me a comment. I have about 7,000 headcanons for modern day Martha, and I will gladly tell them to you all day.  
> As always,  
> Your Desiree <3


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